Wacko Jacko Ain’t Comin’ Backo!

Amazing, trashy, tell all, no publisher listed!

Jordie’s drawings of Jacko’s genitalia reproduced in the above book.

I’m not much a fan of Michael Jackson’s music, but as I media figure I always found him quite interesting, especially in recent years. How can you not love somebody who would hold a baby over a balcony just to entertain his fans? Anyway, this book, Michael Jackson Was My Lover (The Secret Diary Of Jordie Chandler) by Victor M. Gutierrez, which lists no publisher (although it has a copyright date of 1995 and two printing dates, first edition 1996 and second edition 1997) is one of the great, sick, celeb reads. I found a copy at Shakespeare and Co. sitting on a table. The next day I went back to buy a second copy and the pile was gone, I never saw another copy again. Here are some chapter headings: Jackson’s Use Of Enemas and Tampons (p. 64), The Staff Knew About Jordie (p. 77), Jordie’s Description Of Jackson’s Genitalia (p. 158). If you ever see a copy, grab it, it’s a hoot and a half.
After the announcement of Jacko’s death, I turned on CNN to watch the media circus and a CNN reporter had cornered a woman, stalker-fan who spend all her time camped out outside of Jacko’s rented Holmby Hills house. This woman had a teenage daughter in tow, both of them covered in Jacko ephemera. I felt sorry for the daughter, it was obvious that she wasn’t so much Jacko crazed as her mother, but enjoyed having something to bond with her mom over. The mother was insane. When the CNN reporter asked her what it was about Jacko that made her spend all her time camped out in the street waiting for a glimpse of his head in a car speeding away, all she could say, over and over again was– “He invented the Moon Walk! He INVENTED the Moon Walk!” Her eyes were bulging out of her head. Amazing. The other thing I’ll miss are the N.Y. Post headlines: “Wacko Jacko Backo!”,” Wacko Jacko Flees Flacko” (with a photo of paparazzi chasing Jacko into the Courthouse). Who can forget his court appearance in his PJ’s? Who can forget him jumping onto the roof of an SUV after his arraignment, as if he’d just won twenty more Grammy awards? The press conference where he took even Al Sharpton by surprise by accusing Tommy Mottola of being a racist, white devil (“he’s been acting very devilish”), when he thought Sony wasn’t promoting his record Invincible enough. (Sharpton, who looked shocked was speechless for the first time in his life, eventually mumbling “I’m friends with Tommy Mottola, I don’t think he’s racist”). How about Jacko as the Scarecrow in The Wiz, Motown’s re-make of Wizard Of Oz? Or the bizarre television appearances with Lisa Marie Presley, Martin Bashir, and others? He was as entertaining off the stage as on, maybe more. What a nut. The type only America could produce.

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